Fragments
by MoonytheMarauder1
Summary: Blaise Zabini attends the funeral of his fifth stepfather, and reflects on how things had been different with him.


**A/N: Hey y'all! This was written for the Hogwarts Eastern Funfair, for the Ferris Wheel. My prompt: (Character) Blaise Zabini.**

 **Word Count: 1584**

 **Thanks to my sister for beta-ing!**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. Those rights go to JK Rowling.**

 **Enjoy!**

Blaise Zabini wasn't paying attention to the service. Why should he? It wouldn't change anything. His stepfather would still be dead. Out of his mother's seven husbands, this was the fifth funeral Blaise had attended. A voice in the back of his head told him that he shouldn't pretend that this was just another funeral. It was different this time.

All around him, men and women he barely knew were crying into handkerchiefs and eyeing his late stepfather's coffin greedily. It was obviously expensive; no doubt they were waiting for the will to be read. Blaise mentally rolled his eyes. Everything would be left to his mother. It always was.

Still, no matter how much he pretended otherwise, this funeral _was_ different. _Alton_ had been different.

Blaise's mother had been married seven times; his father had been her second and longest-lasting husband. She had once told her son, under the influence of too much wine, that he had been the only man she'd ever truly loved. It hadn't saved him. He drowned on a business trip in the Caribbean when Blaise was four. Or so they said.

Now, ten years later, Blaise was once again watching another of his mother's victims being lowered into the ground. He could lie and say that it was just like all the other times, that nothing had been different about Alton Fawley. Blaise could lie to almost anyone, but he couldn't lie to himself.

Alton had differed greatly from his other stepfathers. He helped Blaise with his homework, taught him how to ride a hippogriff, and had been the first to actually take interest in both his wife _and_ his stepson.

Memories threatened to surge into Blaise's consciousness. Resisting was fruitless— as much as he didn't want to remember for fear of the pain that would follow, he wanted to keep Alton alive. Eventually, it broke through.

" _You see, Blaise! You can do amazing things, if you set your mind to it." Strong, calloused hands (unusual for a pureblood) ruffled ten-year-old Blaise's hair._

 _Blaise frowned. "But it barely moved."_

 _His stepfather was trying to teach him to control his accidental magic. His first task? Slide the salt shaker from one end of the table to the other. It wasn't easy._

 _Alton looked at him kindly. "Ten minutes ago, you couldn't move it at all. You're improving."_

 _Blaise slumped in his seat at the Zabini kitchen table. "And in another ten minutes, I'll move it another centimeter."_

 _Alton looked thoughtful. "Well let's see. The table is," He flicked his wand. "one hundred and twenty-three centimeters long. You have moved it one centimeter. That leaves us with one hundred and twenty-two centimeters to go. That'd be about… twenty hours. So, this time tomorrow, you'll have reached your goal."_

 _Blaise's jaw dropped. "But that's so—"_

" _Ah, but you forget," Alton interrupted. "You'll get faster as you get the hang of it. I bet, if you work diligently, you'll be able to do it by evening."_

 _He had been right. That evening, Blaise successfully slid the salt shaker across the table. Alton's beam of pride lifted the boy's spirit, and he found himself aching for that sort of approval every day._

 _The next day, Alton set a small book in one end of the table. Blaise accepted the challenge._

Blaise pulled himself back into the present. His palms began sweating. Fifteen minutes went by, the young Slytherin horribly distracted by his attempts to ward off his fragmented memories. He distantly heard the word _perfect_ mentioned. Another memory resurfaced.

 _Alton's blue eyes shone in the light of the fire. He was sitting by the fireplace in the sitting room, reading Blaise's exam results from first year._

" _Blaise," he said quietly. "These grades are impressive. I'm proud of you."_

 _Blaise ran a hand through his dark hair. "Mother says I need to improve my Defense grade."_

 _Alton shook his head. "Improve if you can. But you don't have to. There's nothing wrong with Exceeds Expectations."_

 _Blaise began to grin. "You don't think so?"_

 _His stepfather laughed. He leaned forwards. "Let me tell you a little secret," he whispered. "When I was your age, I couldn't get above an Acceptable in Transfiguration. My father was furious; my mother told me that it didn't matter so much what happened as long as I was passing. Look at me now! A stable Ministry job, a home, a family… That A didn't matter at all."_

 _Blaise nodded, feeling better. But Alton wasn't finished._

" _I'm proud of you," the dark-haired man told him sincerely. "I can't wait to see who you become someday."_

As Blaise sat stiffly in the hard-backed chair, he tried to suppress further breaches of his mental walls. It was useless; they came like the tide, powerful and unceasing. Kind blue eyes swelling with pride as they read his grades. Black hair crusted with salt and blown about wildly by the wind on a trip to the beach. Pale hands clapping his shoulder in a friendly greeting. The memories were, like most things in life, both beautiful and excruciating. They reminded him of happier times, but came with the knowledge that he could never have that same happiness again. The memories remained, but Alton was gone.

Then came the worst memory of all.

 _Blaise stared stoically at his shoes. He didn't dare glance up at the hospital bed. The body on it was too still, too pale. Nothing like it had been in health._

" _Blaise," the man on the bed gasped._

 _Against his will, his eyes dragged up to meet the eyes of Alton. "Yes?"_

 _Alton was struggling to breath. Blaise was too numb to cry. "Did… did you know about this?"_

 _Blaise closed his eyes. "I knew she would," he admitted. "Just not when. Or how."_

 _The older man reached out a shaking hand. He weakly gripped his stepson's hand, and Blaise prepared himself for the disappointment and betrayal he was sure to see in the other man's eyes._

" _You're scared."_

 _Blaise glanced up, startled. That had not been what he'd been expecting. "What?"_

 _Alton smiled, but it was strained. "It's okay to be scared. I'm not upset with you. It's… it's not your fault."_

" _I thought… I thought we'd have more time," Blaise murmured._

" _Life rarely goes how we expect. Or how we wish. Listen, Blaise… I'm not angry with you. But I want you to remember."_

 _Blaise stilled, his blood freezing in his veins. He had seen so much death in his life, but never had he been asked to remember the dead. It would make the loss permanent. Blaise didn't know if he could stand that._

 _But Alton had given him something to strive for: the love of a parent. If this was what he had to do… "I won't forget."_

 _Alton's eyes softened, though they were clouded with pain. "That's my boy," he rasped. "Blaise… I am… so proud of you."_

 _Tears finally reached his eyes. "Alton…"_

 _Alton's hand slowly came up to rest on Blaise's shoulder. "You're like a son to me. It was never about your mother… well. Maybe at first. I thought I could love her, in time. I fell in love with you instead. Life rarely goes as you expect… but I'm so thankful that it gave me my son."_

 _Blaise abandoned all attempts at calm and wrapped his arms carefully around the dying man. "You… you're like my father."_

 _That was when Alton stopped breathing._

It angered Blaise that, for all his virtues, Alton had failed to see his mother's treachery. Why no one ever made the connection between his mother's husbands' deaths and the piles of gold they left her with, he'd never understand. He wished Alton had never met his mother. Maybe then he'd still be alive.

He didn't pay attention to the reading of the will. He was watching his mother. A smirk sat upon her lips, pleasure written all over her dark features. Did she feel any remorse at all? Didn't she realize that she'd ended the life of an uncommonly noble man?

Her expression changed abruptly. Disbelief, anger, and a carefully controlled calm all flashed across her face. Then she was moving towards him, her expensive dress robes brushing gently against the floor. When she reached him, she wrapped her arms around him in a cold embrace. Loud enough for the people around them to hear, she said, "Oh, my darling Blaise. I know how much you loved him; I loved him too. You were a son to him. Why else would he leave his _entire fortune_ ," Her hands tightened angrily against his back. "to _you?"_

A grin slowly crept onto Blaise's face, but he hid it in his mother's hair. Perhaps Alton _hadn't_ been fooled by Mrs. Zabini.

Blaise knew that his mother would revert back to Ms. Zabini and play her game all over again. But now he could counter that. She may still kill the men who fell for her, but he could swipe their money, prevent their murderer from getting her hands on it. All he had to do was play them. After all, who didn't want to be seen as the perfect father to the son of their new wife?

And if Alton's photo would remain on his bedside table for the rest of his life, looked at tenderly while other men tried to take the role of father… well. That would stay between him and the only man who'd ever managed to fill those shoes.


End file.
